


A Drink at The Gnome Barbarian

by Tyramir



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Eberron (Setting), Gen, Humor, Morbid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 20:05:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3908887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyramir/pseuds/Tyramir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three adventurers sit down to have a drink, not knowing an assassin has targeted them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Drink at The Gnome Barbarian

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a simple request from our DM - describe my character. Then "describe the other players' characters." And from there, it evolved into a quick short story. Parts of it will be over-descriptive because, well, that was its original purpose, but the story stands on its own.

The Gnome Barbarian was crowded, more so than usual, but that had been Kelturien's plan. A decent bribe had been made to the owner to offer a reduced rate for his drinks this night, and to let that fact be known in certain corners of the city. All one had to do to get the discount was tell the barkeep you worked with the Adventurer's Guild, who would in turn signal those who identified themselves as such to Kelturien.

The night was young, and already the room stunk of Orc. There was no helping it. They were, after all, in a swamp, and the humidity only made sure to enhance the normal fragrance of the brutish creatures. Elves had no place in this shanty-town that its populace called a city. That much was evident by the way so many Orcs would sneer as they caught sight of him. 

He didn't particularly care for their opinions, or those of any of the lesser species really. He wouldn't even be in this stink-pit if not for the reward being offered by House Thrask. They had barely tolerated the presence of the so-called Adventurer's Guild for years, but apparently things had finally come to a head. Kelturien hadn't asked the specifics. He didn't particularly care, but from the sound of things, it wasn't so much a major act just as much as it was the straw that finally broke the camel's back.

A group of three entered the tavern, a pair of the brawnier members shoving assorted patrons out of their way. They didn't approach the bar itself, instead waving a server to a table at which they sat.

One of the wenches hurried to them, took their order, then ran back to the bar. Once she relayed the instructions, the barkeep did a long scratching motion along the side of his bulbous nose. Adventurer's Guild members, the signal said.

Kelturien idly appraised them, pulling out a journal and noting down numbers and features.

The first that caught his attention was a Half-Orc, one who wore a black top hat with a maroon band. That identified him as Krunch. Kelturien had heard tales of that one, an Orc that pretended at civilization. His clothes were well-maintained, for an Orc. He wore an expensive black coat with tails that must've been looted from a nobleman at some point, but the sleeves had been ripped off to accommodate the Orc's beefier arms, and a chain shirt glinted underneath. A wooden shield was strapped to his left shoulder, and a fencer's half cape -- also black, and trimmed in maroon -- covered his right. He had a battle axe dangling precariously from his belt at one side, a quiver and crossbow at the other. Mismatching greaves and cuisses -- no piece looking like it came from the same set -- covered his legs, and only one foot was covered with a sabaton. The other wore a leather boot, shined to perfection, but undoubtedly a soldier's. 

Kelturien took careful notes on the gear, making sure to underline what he thought might slow the Orc down from certain angles, and where some parts of his mismatching armour didn't properly meet, leaving him exposed to a dagger strike. 

Lastly, he took down the Orc's general countenance -- skin more of a grey-brown than the traditional Orc green, large, strong, but not as wide as most of his kind, albeit still heavily muscled. Krunch had a thin, neatly groomed chin strap beard, but his red hair was long, and styled into dreadlocks.

Next was -- Kelturien sneered -- the Tiefling. He was nearly as tall as the Orc -- with his spiralling horns, he was even taller. But unlike Krunch, Dauntless wasn't wide, not even particularly muscled. He was thin, with a runner's build, which made sense. This one had the look of someone who liked to run. Unlike the others, who seemed to be looking forward to the evening's activities, the Tiefling had deliberately chosen a seat where his back was directly to the wall, and he could watch both his companions and the room itself. 

Kelturien tried to seem more unobtrusive than he was already attempting when he felt Dauntless' solid gold eyes flick to him momentarily. Against the contract of the Tiefling's ash grey skin, and with the shadows clinging to him, those eyes seemed to glow with intensity. Was his cover blown? Unlikely. He recognized paranoia when he saw it. You needed it to live a long life as an assassin. Apparently, you also needed it when you were a Tiefling as well.

Dauntless had an easy smile, even with his pronounced canines, barely hidden by a black goatee, but it was a fake thing. There was murderous intent beneath it, or at the very least fear that could quickly give way to violence.

That gaze moved on, and Kelturien felt a sudden relief. Dauntless didn't wear robes -- just dyed green leather over plain traveller's garb -- but the assassin knew a spellcaster when he saw one. There was a certain way they looked at people, at their surroundings, as if always wondering how they could reshape it to suit their own will.

Kelturien hated spellcasters. He made sure to mark down that this one had to be first.

As if those two monsters weren't tall enough, the next one up, the Dragonborn, towered several inches over them both. The one that could only be Qylana wore heavy purple and white armour, covering her most of her body, but it didn't offer the protection of full plate. Parts seemed to be made of leather, and her arms were exposed save for a pair of bracers, the blue scales of her skin glinting ever so subtly in the light. Her feet were also showing, the large, claws apparently unable to be contained by any boots of mortal make.

Her helm concealed her entire head, save the curved goat-like horns that emerged from the top, a bound braid of white hair that came out the back of it, and her odd dragonesque eyes, with their golden sclera and maroon irises. The helm itself had been made to accommodate the fact that she had a snout, though Kelturien had no idea how she put it on and took it off. Hinges? Did it come off in pieces? How did she plan on drinking with that thing on?

Continuing his inspection, he saw that she wore a large amethyst attached to a choker around her neck. It seemed an odd bit of ornamentation for a Paladin. Their kind were normally so austere. 

She didn't have a shield like Krunch did, but she did have a large greatsword strapped to her back. Given how large she was, Kelturien didn't particularly want to see how much damage she could do with it.

The bar wench came with a tray covered in mugs, and set about placing them around the table. He watched as Qylana took up hers and placed it to her helm. The front piece of it fuzzed softly when the glass touched steel, and she appeared to be drinking. An illusion then. The front part of the helm just appeared to be one solid piece. A vulnerability.

The notes for each would be useful. When the time came, Kelturien would use them and all the other information he'd gathered to kill this group.

He watched them for a few hours, making more notations as the opportunities came, observing everything he could. Finally, when they were done with their drinking -- or rather, once Krunch had, the other two had barely touched their initial mugs -- the three rose from their table and left, Krunch singing surprisingly well the entire time. Once they were gone, and disgusted by the scent of Orc in the room, Kelturien decided it was time for him to depart as well. He made sure to clean the nub of his quill, then placed it in a pouch, secured his ink bottle, and then carefully tucked the journal into his pocket. 

His prey had exited out the front, so he went out the back. Brushing through the crowd, trying not to touch any of its inhabitants as he did, Kelturien went through the kitchens and out the rear exit. He emerged into the alley way behind the bar, and while it didn't smell particularly better, now that he was outside, it felt as if a pressure had lifted from him.

Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, trying to fill his palate with something other than stale beer and unwashed Orc.

As he did, something crashed against his head, sending stars bursting across his vision. Pain filled him, followed by nausea, and it was all he could do to not vomit.

He was on the ground, he realized. Instincts kicked in, and he scrambled, turning around, flopping so he could look up. 

And there, the three targets who were to be his victims, stood over him, towering like giants, evil eyes looking down on him. How had they known? He was certain he'd been unobserved, that he hadn't been recognized as a spy and potential assassin.

He reached for his dagger, but Qylana's clawed foot kicked at his hand as he drew, sending the weapon scattering away. 

"Weak," the Dragonborn hissed. It was an accusation, Kelturien realized. Followers of Tiamat did not tolerate those they deemed unfit to live.

"How did you know?" he asked. "What I'd been doing, what I'd been writing? What gave me away?"

The three exchanged glances, obviously confused.

"You mean that fruity Elvish poetry you've been scribbling all night?" Krunch asked. "I knew he was writing a sonnet about you, Dauntless!"

The Tiefling sighed, as if this hadn't been the first time he'd heard the remark. The Half-Orc leaned in close, his lips stretched into a wide, toothy grin. Kelturien winced, ready to do some daring feat of acrobatics and tumbling to get away, but the alleyway was muddy, and there was no purchase to be found. He waiting for the axe to come down, to end his life.

Instead, Krunch reached at Kelturien's belt, and yanked his money pouch free, then bounced it in his palm, testingly.

"Oooh, good pay day for us," Krunch said. "Told you we could make up the price of the drinks. Tabias won't even notice we stole from the party fund for tonight's excursion, and we'll have leftovers for the three of us."

"Wait," Kelturien said, relieved. "You're just going to rob me? Not kill me?"

"Woah woah, let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"Yeah. The city watch hates us," Dauntless said. "They keep looking for excuses to lock us up."

"I won't tell anyone, I swear!"

The three exchanged looks, apparently dubious about the truth to that particular statement. Kelturien needed them to believe him.

"It is my turn," Qylana said. "You got the last one."

Krunch nodded morosely. "And it was fun, too. You still owe me twenty gold for managing to get that Halfling onto that spike."

"I am not paying you," she said. "Followers of Tiamat do not gamble. I will make it quick for him."

"I have powerful family members!" Kelturien said, panicked. "Both Elven lords and important humans on my mother's side!"

Dauntless' head snapped up at that. Qylana looked to him, then grumbled something darkly. Krunch shook his head.

Feeling confident at their response, Kelturien began to stand. "I'll... I'll just go, since you're not going to kill me."

"Look at this jackass," Krunch said. "Still getting ahead of himself. No, you said you had human blood. That makes it Dauntless' turn. By the way, how do you feel about fire?"

"What?"

He never got to inquire further. Dauntless raised a hand, and suddenly Kelturien was engulfed in flames. He fell, immediately tried to roll, but the Tiefling kept pouring the flame on. As he died, in utter agony, the sound of laughter followed him to the afterlife.


End file.
